Highly Unlikely
by Zero-M3
Summary: Yes it's a slash of Sweeney Todd and Phantom, I like this pairing A LOT and there isn't enough written of them. Anyways, Erik moves to London to escape the opera house/France. His new home happens to be next to a certain barber.
1. Introduction

**AN: So I'm finally digging this story back out to actually update and work on chapters. I've updated the intro a bit as well.**

**I own nothing besides the plot**

_ In the pitch of twilight, a cold breeze shuffled through the skidrow streets of London. A shadowy figure dressed in black stalked the alleys of Fleet Street until it neared a well known building on said street. The figure's gloved hands tightened around the bags it carried; pure white masque luminated against the night sky as it walked the filthy street. It was humming a tune as it strode. The tune was sad, it was beautiful, and it was hypnotic. The incescent clicking of it's shoes stopped short in front of a building that fit snuggly against a pie shop but before it could ascend the stairs that lead to it's new home, a glint in the corner of it's eye caught it's attention. _

_ The shadowy figure turned it's head to gaze up to where the glint came from as a touch of silver swung gracefully by the window of the room above the pie shop. Peering up at the dancing object, the figure became entranced in its spell until it noticed a set of eyes watching him. Deep brown eyes that touched on midnight's sky and rimmed with smoky bruising glared down at the shadowy figure. Swinging in the air again, the silver glint took on a life of its own until it snapped close into it's handle piece, causing a shiver to run up the figure's spine. The man in the window slowly walked out of view with his silent steps and unwavering gaze, placing his treasured silver in the breast pocket of his dark vest. _

_ One last glance at the window before the shadowy figure took this opportunity to leave and enter the building adjacent to the pie shop, a rush of fabric from his black cape ruffling in the twilight's breeze before the thick door cut off his image to the outside world. _


	2. Watching from Afar

The soft press of nimble fingers on black and white keys was drowned out by the melodic music they produced; a lilting melody that wrapped around the masked figure and made a rich, obviously male voice, sing out. Lyrics were sung lightly by the male, not wanting to disturb his new neighbors since the sun was just peeking it's way over the dismal landscape of London. His fingers danced over the keys as though he was caressing a fair lover, his golden eyes watching the streets fill with citizens starting their day anew; his was only filled with swirling memories and regret.

A woman with curled chesnut hair caught his golden eyes as she wandered down the grubby street that lead from Fleet Street to the market square, her plain blue and brown dress made him cringe as he thought of who he left behind in France. Another memory he would have to forget about since she had only been a half wit, a pawn really who moved where ever the money flowed instead of the love. Although the tawny haired fellow had seemed true to his words of romance, it didn't matter, his heart was broken and he didn't feel the need to mend it, only to forget.

A noise from below his window had him stopping short of his thoughts and music, a curiousity over taking him at the thought of what it could be. He walked over to the thickly curtained glass and peeked over the expanse of heavy cloth only to see a large crowd of people outside the building next door. A sign over the wide window of the lower half of the building read "Ms. Lovett's Fresh Pies" in golden letters that seemed to be rather newly painted. The phantom male moved himself closer to his own window and scanned the shop.

Inside the shop appeared to be a small paper boy from what he could tell and a petite woman dressed in dark, gothic clothing that did not accent her well, especially with her drooping curls. She was pulling pies from an oven just as the boy was splashed in flour from the dough he was rolling for more pies. Another darkly dressed person caught his attention at that moment, the person being a man with wildly curly black hair with a single white streak in his bangs. The man was wearing a dark pin striped over coat that matched his rather tight fitting slacks and dusty boots.

The man circled and looped through the crowd of people, whisking away a few men with their facial hair in disarray and lead them up to the top floor of the building. They disappeared behind the beaten door and only a small glimpse through the window could the phantom see the man pull out a silver blade and begin shaving the men quite expertly. A low whistle came from the phantom as he observed the barber work his bladed magic, not a single nick or spot of hair missed.

A slightly calloused hand rubbed over stubbled cheeks that hadn't seen a razors embrace in weeks. The phantom gave a sigh and pulled back from his window to walk to the standing mirror on the far corner. It's gilded edges were covered in cobwebs and the dusty glass reflected back a haggard looking man who looked as though he hadn't slept in weeks. He gave a deeper sigh this time and grabbed his waistcoat from the coat rack next to his bedroom door. It pulled loosely over his white button up dress shirt and black slacks that were covered at the waist and hips by a red sash.

The phantom was out his bedroom door and swiftly making his way down the spiraled stairs to his sitting room before he suddenly braced the cool morning air. Biting cold nipped at the parts of his face that were uncovered while the rest of his clothed body faired well against the brisk english weather. He pulled his coat a little tighter around himself just for good measure and wound his way through the crowd of people until he was almost pressed against the barber's door. A chill ran down his spine, that he blamed on the weather, and he raised a gloved hand to knock. However, before his knuckles could even rap against the beaten wood, the door swung open.


End file.
